


Im Namen des Herren

by Wahnsinn



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Angst, Blasphemy, Bullying, Caning, Comfort, Confessions, Fear, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Loneliness, Longing, Lust, Punishment, Religion, Religious Content, Religious Sin, Rosenrot, Self-Flagellation, Sexual Tension, Violence, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23060899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wahnsinn/pseuds/Wahnsinn
Summary: A sinner shall be punished.
Comments: 30
Kudos: 55





	1. Preludium

**Author's Note:**

> The setting for this fiction is from the music video for Rosenrot, without following the story from the video. Warnings for violence and harsh punishment, and likely inaccurate depictions of religion and religious themes.

The quiet scratching of a pen moving against paper was the only thing that could be heard. He sat there in deep concentration, letting the words come to him as he leaned against his favourite tree. Every now and then, he paused to contemplate on a word or a phrase, or to take a sip from the cup of wine placed next to him. The sun warmed his body enough for him not to get too cold, despite it being early spring.

Closing his eyes, he could see it, a perfect face with high cheekbones, blue, soulful eyes complementing a slender body with soft curves and sun-tanned skin. Immersing himself deeper into his imagination, he could almost feel that skin against his own fingertips, and his own touch being returned by a hand caressing his cheek, his chest, moving down further towards…

“Lindemann, you lazy bastard! You know we needed you at the field today, and you sit here writing your stupid poetry, drinking, and touching yourself?”

The harsh words of the elder shook him out of his pleasant daydream. His hand had, subconsciously, moved to his groin area, and he quickly removed it, face turning red from embarrassment. Till didn’t dare facing the elder, instead he cast his eyes down, studying the notebook lying on his chest, still open, his words of longing scribbled across the white pages.

“You’d better get your ass up from there and come with me. I have talked to the others, and you will meet before the council. They will decide what to do about you. Apparently, that last beating didn’t help,” the elder said, voice cold and hostile.

Till quickly gathered his things, putting them in his brown linen bag. Picking up his cup, he quickly decided to drink the rest of the wine in a big gulp before shaking the cup and dropping it into the bag as well. No need to waste good wine, he thought, especially not now.

Till remembered the last time he’d been put before the council of elders. That time, as well, he had been skipping work to spend some time alone to write and think, even though he knew very well that his place was in the fields, working alongside the other men in the village. When he was caught, the council had decided to have him tied to the pole and whipped. He shuddered at the thought of the whip lashing against the bare skin of his back. 

With heavy steps he started moving, apparently not fast enough. The elder grabbed his arm, yanking him forward to give him a hard slap in the face. “Move,” he spat out, pushing Till towards the path leading back to the village.

The small group of houses was only five minutes from where Till had been spending the day, but the walk back felt like a mile. It is almost like walking to my own execution, Till thought wearily. Of course, he knew this could happen, but that morning, he just didn’t think about consequences. He woke up early, the memory of his dream fresh before his eyes, and he just needed to write down that feeling of belonging, of being loved, before it slipped out of his mind. So, he had taken off without hesitation, without considering how the others would have to work harder in his absence.

Till hung his head down in shame, his cheek still burning after the stinging slap he had received. In the distance, he could see the wooden roofs of the village, the small houses placed in a semi-circle around the common area. As they moved closer, he could see the five tall chairs set up next to the wooden pole and the firepit. Benches were placed in front of the chairs, a lot more than the last time, Till noticed. Only a few had shown up for his last council, but word had travelled fast about his punishment, and by the time he was tied to the pole, what seemed like the entire village had been out in the common area to witness it.

Now, at the prospect of more entertainment to break up the daily routines, it wouldn’t surprise him if they would all be there, judging him, looking for more blood. Till still remembered the whispers that seemed to always quiet down when he passed, then picking up again immediately after. How the young ones had been hiding behind bushes to try and get a glance of his scarred back. How the girls had giggled and pointed at him, only to turn away as soon as he looked their way.

As he walked into the common area, Till was surprised to see five unfamiliar men talking to the elder council members. The men were all clad in long robes. Priests, Till mused. The village sometimes got visited by travelling clergymen who came to preach about some god he did not believe existed. They were always taken well care of, and he could already see the women working on preparing food for their welcome dinner. Food and circus, he thought, frowning.

The elder grabbed his arm and pulled him over to the pole. “Sit,” he demanded, before joining the rest of the council members. Till sat down, leaning his back against the heavy wood, watching the newcomers. A tall and skinny dark-haired man, dressed in a black cassock and lace surplice with a black stole, seemed to be their leader. Beside him, a smaller man, who seemed to be a Carthusian priest, gesticulated heavily as he pitched in. In the back, two others stood silent, one very young, but tall Franciscan priest with simple, hooded friar robes, and one very serious looking priest wearing a black cassock with metal buttons and a black padre hat.

And then there was the last one… Till hadn’t seen any priest like that before. He wore a black, flowing exorasson, and on his head, he had a tall kamilavka and epanokamelavkion. Leaning nonchalantly against a wall, the priest flicked out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling deeply before letting the smoke slip out from between his lips. Till couldn’t help staring, fascinated, the other clergymen who had visited the village had often instilled in them how smoking was a sin, and how they should abstain from such temptations.

The priest lifted the cigarette to his mouth yet again, sucking in more smoke as his eyes caught the man sitting by the pole. Till was still staring at him when their eyes met. It felt like the man stared straight into his soul, and he instantly looked down, as if he had been burned by the other man’s gaze. He didn’t dare look at him again.

Soon after, the elders finished their conversation with the priests. As they shook hands, Till could see the smoking priest leaning in, saying something to the head of the council who was clearly not happy about what he was told, but he still frowned and nodded.

The villagers had already begun to fill the benches when the council took their places in the tall chairs. A small stool was placed in front of them, and with a nod of his head, the head council member got two of the burly field workers to hoist Till up by the arms, drag him over to the stool, and place him heavily upon it.

“Till Lindemann,” the head council started, “we are gathered here today because we have learned that you yet again ignored your duties as a member of this community. I have also been told that you were instead spending your time writing, drinking alcohol, and touching yourself inappropriately.”

A gasp could be heard from the villagers behind him. Some girls giggled. Till felt his ears burning from shame. He lowered his head even more, staring intently at the toes of his worn leather boots.

“Much as I would have liked to punish you myself, and a lot harsher than last time, we have the honour of having five clergymen visiting our humble village this week. They have kindly offered their assistance in this matter. Thus, the council has decided to leave it up to them to deal with you however they see fit. Each upcoming day, you shall see one of them in their quarters, and I have faith that they will make sure you are properly punished for your sins. I shall also hope you will learn your lesson this time,” the elder said, voice full of contempt.

Till’s heart sank into his stomach. Five days of punishment? Glancing over at the five priests, he was terrified. He had heard stories about how brutal the holy men could be, even to themselves, and he had listened to the pained groans from the clearing where visiting priests gathered to whip themselves, seen the jute whips all red and bloody when they came back afterwards.

“Now that this has been settled, we will, as usual, welcome our guests with a proper dinner. As for you, Lindemann – one of the priests requested that you shall not be denied taking part in this, as he thinks you will need your strength and energy for the upcoming days. Consider yourself very lucky. I would have had you on bread and water, but I will honour his request.”

Surprised, Till turned to look at the clergymen. Lifting his cigarette to his mouth, the Eastern Orthodox priest looked straight at Till, tipping his head ever so subtly as their eyes met.

During the welcoming dinner, Till sat at the edge of a table, all by himself, barely managing to eat any of the delicious food that had been prepared. The other villagers kept staring, but actively avoided him, and he felt more alone than ever before.

A flutter of fabric suddenly dumped down next to him on the bench. It was the Eastern Orthodox priest, holding a full plate of food that he placed on the table in front of him. “So, you’re the bad guy in this village,” the priest said, though with a friendly smile, holding out his hand for Till to shake. “Father Kruspe.”

Till looked at the hand, incredulously. After a few awkward seconds, he shook the priest’s hand. It was warm and so soft that Till wondered if the man had ever done any manual labour. “Till Lindemann,” he managed.

Father Kruspe was beautiful. His cheekbones were high, his thin lips angled slightly downwards, which could have made him look angry had it not been for the eyes. They were blue-grey, with heavy eyelids which gave him a worried, almost sad expression. Until he smiled.

“You should eat. The food is really good,” he said, face lighting up as he displayed a row of white teeth, lifting his plate to offer the food to Till. When Till didn’t react, he put the plate down and turned serious.

“You really should eat. I am not going to lie to you, you have some rough days coming up. The first three days will be the worst. Father Landers has been assigned the first day, then you will face Father Lorenz on day two, and Father Schneider on day three.”

As he spoke, he nodded towards the respective priests. Father Landers was the small Carthusian priest. He was sitting between two villagers, talking loudly with a broad smile on his face, a myriad of wrinkles fanning out from the corners of his eyes. The man was looking so friendly that if Till didn’t know better, he would have thought him harmless.

Father Lorenz was the tall leader of the group, the Anglican protestant high priest. He did not smile or even make any kind of facial expression, and he had positioned himself so that he had full overview of all the tables. Occasionally, Till saw him look in his direction, which made him shudder. Though the one that made him feel the most uneasy was Father Schneider. Clad in all black, the Roman Catholic priest’s piercing blue eyes were thin lines under the brim of his hat, and his stare made Till want to sink into a hole in the ground and never come back up.

Till sighed heavily, rubbing his face with his hands. When he removed them, he saw the young Franciscan priest had turned around to look at him. His big eyes had a mild expression filled with something that almost looked like – concern? For a second, Till wondered why Father Kruspe had not mentioned him, but he didn’t dwell on it, he had enough on his mind.

“They believe in punishment through pain,” Father Kruspe continued, quietly.

“And you don’t?” Till asked, curious, yet afraid to hear the answer.

Father Kruspe smiled again. “I have my own ways,” he replied cryptically. “Now eat.” He pushed the plate towards Till, got up, and walked towards the rest of the clergymen.


	2. Father Landers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Till's first day of punishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The setting for this fiction is from the music video for Rosenrot, without following the story from the video. Warnings for violence and harsh punishment, and likely inaccurate depictions of religion and religious themes.

Till lay in bed, shivering. Even with his blankets pulled tightly around his body, he couldn’t seem to get warm. He was afraid, terrified of what was awaiting him. If only I believed in a god, then I could beg him to help me endure these priests, he thought, smiling wryly at the irony of the situation. He thought about running away, but he had nowhere to run. The village was far from other settlements. Besides, he knew the elders would send riders with dogs after him, and then he would be even worse off than he already was.

Resigned, he decided to just accept his fate and endure whatever the priests decided to do to him. Closing his eyes tightly shut, he tried to imagine the soft features of the somewhat mysterious Father Kruspe, but his mind kept trailing back to the cold, piercing eyes of Father Schneider. Distraught, Till tossed and turned for hours before passing out from exhaustion.

He had barely gotten any sleep when hard knocks on his door startled him awake. Soon after, the two burly workers barged into his tiny cottage, followed by the head council member. One of the workers threw a white woollen tunic at him. “Get dressed,” he growled.

Sluggishly, Till crawled out of bed. In his tired state, he struggled a bit with the large and unruly garment, but he got it on eventually, and pulled on a pair of wool socks. As soon as he had put his feet into his boots, he two men were at his side, grabbing his arms, dragging him with them.

“I can walk myself,” Till hissed through clenched teeth, flailing in the iron grip of the elder’s henchmen while simultaneously trying to brace himself against the cold morning air. The elder ignored him, striding with long steps towards the guest building. Situated at the edge of the semi-circle of houses, it was bigger and more ornated than most of the homes of the villagers. The elders were eager to show off to visitors.

From the houses they passed, Till could see people trying to hide behind their curtains so he wouldn’t see them staring at him. “Till is in trouble! Till is in trouble!” a young boy chanted from a porch, his mother quickly shushing at him, pulling him back into the house.

With a few quick knocks on the door, the elder announced their arrival. Soon after, Father Landers opened the door. Instead of the white tunic, he was dressed in a black one with a cincture tied around his waist. After exchanging a few words with the elder, he motioned for Till to be brought inside. The two workers dumped him unceremoniously onto the floor. “Want him tied up?” the elder asked, pointing towards a rope hanging from the belt of one of his men.

Father Landers turned to Till. “Do you need to be tied up?” he asked calmly. Till was quite a bit bigger and more muscular than the small priest, he could probably overtake him if he wanted to. Yet he had no wish to hurt the holy man, and he didn’t even want to think about what would happen to him if he did. Everyone in the village had heard the old stories about criminals being burned alive at the stake, and when Till was younger, he had ran his fingers through the soil by the wooden pole, wondering if there were still traces left of those men and women.

He swallowed and shook his head. “Very well,” Father Landers said, turning towards the elder. “It will not be necessary, thank you.”

The elder nodded. “Do you want me to leave my men at the door for your safety?” he said, sizing up the small man, then looking at Till, then back at the priest.

Father Landers let out a small laugh. “No, thank you. I don’t think this man will cause me any problems. I would now like to be alone with him.”

Looking slightly surprised, the elder gestured for his men to leave the room before turning towards Till who was still on the floor. “You brought this on yourself, Lindemann,” he said brusquely. Then he walked out, closing the door behind him.

Alone with the priest, Till suddenly felt naked and vulnerable. Father Landers slowly circled around him, curiously studying the man he now had in his power. Till tried not to look at him. Instead, he looked down at his own hands. They were shaking. He was not sure if it was from the cold, or if it was fear.

Wringing his hands to stop the shaking, he saw the light boots of the priest stopping in front of him. 

“Are you going to hit me?” Till asked quietly.

“Only if I have to,” Father Landers replied. He walked over to the table and picked up a folded piece of cloth. Placing it in front of Till, he unfolded it. “I believe the most effective punishment is the one you give yourself.”

Till let out a small groan when he saw the jute whip inside, the same type the priests used to flog themselves. It was a simple whip with a braided handle and seven tails.

“What if I can’t do it?” Till asked with trembling voice.

“Then I shall do it for you,” the priest said softly. “But first, I will take your confession.”

He sat down on the floor next to Till, cross-legged, resting his head on his hands. When Till did not say anything, he hawked, tilting his head slightly.

Till looked up, briefly. Father Landers was staring at him, expectantly. His genuine interest surprised Till. He had assumed the priests would strip him down and beat him senseless straight away. It was difficult to concentrate with the whip lying in front of him, he was almost unable to pry his eyes away from it. Till knew he would get to feel it against his skin no matter what, but if the priests were willing to listen, then perhaps they would also have some compassion and lessen the agony he would undoubtedly have to go through.

“I – don’t know what to say,” he started. “I don’t believe in any god, and I don’t know how to confess.”

Father Landers chuckled. “Normally, you would start with ‘Bless me, father, for I have sinned’ and tell me how long it has been since your last confession. We can skip that, I guess, since you are not religious, but I would try to remember for when you meet with the others. Some of them are stricter than me when it comes to formalities. Sometimes I think they care more about the formalities than what is actually being confessed to,” he mused.

The priest suddenly realised that he was trailing off. He turned his attention back to Till, who still had his eyes fixed on the whip in front of him.

“Let’s put this aside for a little while,” he said, wrapping the cloth around the jute, pushing it away. “How about we begin by you telling me how you ended up in this situation?”

Till’s eyes followed the piece of cloth, but he finally managed to stop staring at it. “I didn’t really do much,” he mumbled. “I guess that was the problem. I didn’t do what I was supposed to do.”

The calmness of the priest made Till relax a bit. He realised he had been sitting there all tense, and exhaling deeply, he could feel his shoulders lowering from almost underneath his ears. “Our village is small. We rely on what we can produce ourselves, and right now we need to prepare for sowing. Like the other men, I work in the fields, and I don’t mind the hard work. I just woke up yesterday and I was inspired, I had an urge to write, and it just felt right to go and do it. I didn’t mean to skip; I just wanted to write and didn’t think about how everyone is needed in the fields this time of the year.”

“What were you writing?” Father Landers asked.

“Poetry. I know it sounds stupid, but I have this longing in me, I am not really sure what I am longing for, if it is love or just a sense of belonging. Writing about it helps clear my head.” Till looked slightly ashamed, but Father Landers gave him an understanding nod.

“Everyone wants to belong somewhere, whether it is with God or with something else. No one should blame you for this. Skipping work is a different matter. From what you are telling me, I understand why you did so, but that does not mean that your action will not have consequences.”

Tensing up again, Till felt the priest’s comforting hand on his shoulder. “I want you to try and not be afraid of what will happen here today. It will hurt, but that is the point, and you will feel lighter afterwards. You always have a reason to punish yourself for mistakes. Doing so is a release. Now, please tell me about the rest.” Father Landers’s voice was soothing. Till was not sure he believed what he was saying, but he desperately wanted to.

“There isn’t really much more. I brought some wine to drink while I was writing, And I didn’t really touch myself like that, I just – I was lost in thoughts. My hand just… I didn’t realise….” Till sighed. When spoken out loud, even he could hear how bad his explanation was. He was the one who had skipped work and let the others down to give in to his impulses. He had been drinking, and he had conjured up images in his head that made his hand find his private area. Thinking about how selfish he had been, a feeling of guilt rose in him. He deserved to be punished.

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned,” Till whispered, and lowered his head. For some reason, those words, which he had never uttered before, sounded right.

The small priest smiled. “It is all right, child. The Lord will free you from your sins.”

Father Landers started reciting a prayer. His hand still rested on Till’s shoulder, occasionally drawing small circles in the fabric of the woollen tunic. Till had closed his eyes. He felt strangely calm. The priest’s voice was quiet and pleasant. It felt like the world had stopped, it was just the two of them, and nothing else mattered.

When the priest ended his prayer, they sat in silence for a while before Till opened his eyes and looked straight at the priest with a determined expression. “I am ready.”

A broad smile spread in the face of the father, creating the myriad of crow’s feet that Till had seen during the dinner the day before. He let go of Till’s shoulder. Stretching over, he pulled the piece of cloth back in front of Till, motioning for him to unfold it himself.

The cloth was black and soft to the touch. When unfolding it, Till noticed that his hands weren’t shaking anymore. Getting up on his knees, he pulled the top of his tunic down to his waist, freeing his arms, shuddering slightly from the air against his naked torso. The braided handle of the whip was rugged against his palm, he closed his hand, and it felt good to have something to hold on to.

“How do I…?” he started, looking at Father Landers. Without words, the priest moved into a kneeling position and with slow arm motions, he showed how to strike from the various angles; over the shoulders, around the waist.

Exhaling deeply, Till raised his arm. Bracing himself, he swung the whip around his waist. The ends of the jute hit him across the lower back and left a sharp and searing pain. Till gritted his teeth and swung again, this time across his left shoulder, leaving angry, red stripes across his upper back, crisscrossing the scars from his public punishment.

Working into a rhythm, he kept swinging, again and again, the sound of the whip hitting his back filling the room, mixing with heavy breathing and cries of pain. The tails of the jute were soon stained red with his blood, his entire back was on fire, but he held on to the whip handle as if that was what was keeping him alive. He was getting numb to the point where he couldn’t feel the sting of the lashes anymore. Instead, it almost felt good, he was getting light-headed, tears were streaming down his face. Till started meeting the tails with his body instead of just bracing, and he kept hitting, hitting, hitting…

A surprisingly strong hand locked around his wrist. Till whimpered and tried to free himself to keep going, but Father Landers did not let go. “It is enough,” he said softly. “You did good.”

Till let the bloody whip fall to the floor and slumped forward. His back was raw, large areas stripped of flesh. Thin lines of blood had trickled down to his tunic, staining it red. As he lay there panting, sensation started coming back to him, and he groaned loudly as the pain kicked in.

“Come. Let me get you over to the bed.” A gentle arm slid under Till’s, helping him to his feet so he could shuffle his way over to the broad guest bed. Father Landers guided him down on his stomach and placed a pillow under his head. Then he walked over to the kitchen and fetched a water bottle.

“Please, drink,” he said, holding the bottle to Till’s mouth. In a daze, Till lifted his head slightly, and drank in big gulps. All movements generated sharp pain that cut into his back, and he whimpered as he lay his head back down on the pillow.

Father Landers put the bottle down on the bedside table. He walked back to the kitchen to pour water from the kettle into a small wash basin, grabbing a clean cloth on his way back to Till.

“I will clean your wounds. Try to lie still,” he said soothingly. The priest sat down at the edge of the bed, dipped the cloth in the boiled water, and started tending to Till’s back with a gentle, trained hand. Trying not to scream, Till buried his face in the pillow, gripping the edges of it so hard that his knuckles whitened.

Seeing Till’s agony, Father Landers started singing. Till wasn’t sure what he was singing, perhaps some kind of hymn? For such a small body, the priest had a clear and powerful voice, and the melody was intricate. Losing himself to the song, Till started relaxing. Smiling to himself, Father Landers continued singing as he washed the blood off Till’s body, and by the time he was done, Till had drifted off into a merciful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fiction is in seven parts. Originally planned for weekly updates, though it may be published slightly faster as I got some extra time to write.


	3. Father Lorenz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Till's second day of punishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The setting for this fiction is from the music video for Rosenrot, without following the story from the video. Warnings for violence and harsh punishment, and likely inaccurate depictions of religion and religious themes.

The creaking of a door woke Till up. Confused, he lifted his head to look around, but he quickly let it sink back into the pillow, whimpering in pain from the movement. When his head cleared up a bit and he was able to focus, he realised he was in his own bed. Light from the windows seeped into his cottage, and he could see a tall, slim figure standing by the table. The hooded friar robes gave his identity away.

“What are you doing here, Father…” Till croaked, realising he did not yet know the name of the Franciscan priest. The other man did not reply. In silence, he unpacked something from a cloth bag before moving towards the bed. Even though he was towering over Till, his eyes exuded kindness and compassion.

Kneeling on the floor, the priest unscrewed a jar and put it on the bed. Then he held up a water bottle. When he didn’t get any response, he gently lifted Till’s head and held the bottle to his chapped lips so he could drink. Only then did Till realise how thirsty he was, and he emptied the bottle in short time.

“Please, some more?” he asked. The priest nodded and went to refill the bottle. This time, Till took it eagerly, soon after handing the empty bottle back to the priest, who put it on the floor. He caught a whiff of something sweet. Then he realised the jar on the bed contained honey.

The Franciscan priest kneeled beside the bed again, and moved the blanket away from Till’s torso. A piece of cloth was covering Till’s back. Blood had seeped through it. Putting a hand on Till’s head to keep him still, he slowly started peeling off the cloth. Gritting his teeth, Till could feel the cloth had almost stuck to the wound. His eyes watered and he groaned loudly, but let the young priest remove the bloody fabric.

Soon after, he felt something cool and sticky against his back. With soft strokes, the Franciscan priest applied a thin layer of honey onto the wounds. The sting made Till hiss in agony during application, but when the Father was done and covered his back with a clean cloth, he felt better.

“Thank you, Father,” he mumbled. The young priest smiled behind his brown beard as he screwed the lid back on the honey jar. He patted Till on the head, got up, and put the jar back into his bag. Digging into it, he retrieved something else, which he brought to the bed: Ham, eggs, cheese, butter, and bread. Gesturing for Till to eat, he went to refill the water bottle, and placed it on a stool next to the bed. Then he pressed his palms together in a silent prayer, bowed his head, picked up his bag, and quietly exited the cottage.

When he came back that evening, Till was asleep. The young priest smiled when he saw that most of the food was gone. He packed up the rest of it and refilled the water bottle. Looking at Till with blue, sad eyes, he sighed and made the sign of the cross. Then he left as quietly as he had entered.

\-- 

Till’s next visitors were less graceful. Again, he was ripped out of sleep by the head council’s men barging in by sunrise, without their boss this time. They didn’t wait for Till to get up himself, instead, they lifted him out of bed by the arms and the legs and placed him on the floor. One of them pulled the now bloodstained tunic over Till’s head, generating a hoarse cry of pain. “More awake now than when we carried you back here yesterday, I hear,” he laughed, shoving Till’s feet into his boots.

“Gotta say, you looked like shit when we picked you up. Those priests are scary. Damn, I’m glad I’m not in your shoes, you poor bastard,” the other one commented, a hint of sympathy in his voice.

“Don’t feel sorry for the lazy scamp,” the first one spat out. “You certainly didn’t feel sorry for him in the fields when you had to do his job.”

The two men fell silent as they grabbed the white-clad man by the arms to bring him to his second day of punishment. This time, the other villagers didn’t even bother trying to hide. They were openly staring as Till was dragged to the guest house, gasping and pointing at Till’s back where rust-coloured stains stood in stark contrast to the white wool. Till didn’t care. The rude awakening and the cold air had forced him awake enough to realise he had bigger problems than nosy villagers.

The Anglican protestant high priest stood outside on the porch, wearing the same outfit as the day before; black cassock with a white lace surplice flowing around his skinny body. He had his arms crossed and the same stony expression on his face, although Till could have sworn he saw a small smirk when the priest noticed the men hauling him towards him.

“Excellent. Bring him inside. And please, would you tie his hands behind his back?” Father Lorenz said, greeting the men with a slight bow of his head.

“I’m not going to resist,” Till muttered, growling as his arms were pried onto his back before one of the men fastened a rope around his wrists.

Father Lorenz eyed Till, patting him on the head. “I am not worried about that, but we wouldn’t want you to touch yourself inappropriately again, now would we?” he asked, rhetorically. The priest’s words were dripping of condescendence. Till held his tongue, but his facial expression revealed his emotions all too well.

“Kneel,” Father Lorenz commanded as soon as the two of them were alone. Till gave him a defiant stare, but obeyed, kneeling on the wooden floor. The high priest pulled Till’s tunic down to his waist. In a swift motion, he ripped off the cloth covering the wounds on his back. Till screamed, slumping forward, banging his forehead into the floor in agony.

Straightening his round glasses, Father Lorenz leaned in closer to inspect the results of Till’s self-flagellation. “Not bad. Father Landers must have made an impression on you,” he remarked, lifting the cloth closer to his nose to smell it.

“And I see that Father Riedel has paid you a visit as well,” he said dryly. “Much too kind for my taste, but he’s young, and after all, we are not savages.”

Till gritted his teeth and cast his eyes down in order to contain himself. His knees were already aching, and Father Lorenz was pushing his buttons to the point where he was so flustered that he barely noticed his back was in pain. He closed his eyes and tried to remember Father Landers’s soothing hymn from the day before, the kindness of the young priest he now knew the name of, and the way the mysterious Father Kruspe lifted his cigarette to his mouth, inhaling deeply…

A hard slap that made his eyes start watering brought him back to the reality of the guest house. “Nuh-uh-uh, no daydreaming,” Father Lorenz scolded. Pulling a chair up in front of the kneeling Till, he sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and rested his hands in his lap. “I shall take your confession now.”

Till remembered Father Landers’s advice. “Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It has been one day since my last confession,” he quietly recited.

The stone face of Father Lorenz slipped up for a second. Glancing up at him, Till could see a surprised smile spread in the priest’s face. “I was told you were not religious?” he half asked, half stated.

“I’m not,” Till answered.

Father Lorenz nodded. “I shall remember to compliment Father Landers,” he remarked. Then he adjusted his glasses and looked at Till again. “So tell me, son, why do you not believe in God?”

Till shrugged. “Nothing I have seen so far has convinced me there is one. Good things happen to bad people. Bad things happen to good people, regardless of their belief. I guess I don’t feel the need to blame someone or something for this.”

“Everything happens for a reason, because it is God’s will,” Father Lorenz replied.

“Then your God must be unfair and cruel,” Till said, wryly.

“How so? Did your parents not teach you that God is good and merciful?” The high priest huffed.

“Parents?” Till almost spat out the words, now staring fiercely at the priest, his eyes going blank from genuine hurt. “My parents were murdered when I was five, and those who did it were never caught or punished. Your so-called good and merciful God stripped a boy of his family, then had him grow up with hateful people who treated him like a servant and slave. Would not a fair entity listen to the prayers of a child who cried himself to sleep at night hoping that the next day would be better, only to wake up to another beating and more hard work?”

Father Lorenz listened to Till’s rambling, thoughtfully, his expression had softened ever so slightly.

“And look at me now,” Till said bitterly, “the outsider of the village. People talk about me behind my back, they mock me for writing poetry, girls giggle at my scarred face and body. I always get the hardest and dirtiest jobs in the fields, and when I am not working, I am alone. When the council got a chance, they took great pleasure in having me whipped in public. And here I am again, yes, I screwed up, but five days of punishment in the name of the Lord? If this is the work of your God, then please tell me why I should believe!”

Till clenched his jaw, frowning, still staring defiantly at the high priest. Father Lorenz shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He tried to stare back at the man kneeling in front of him, but was unable to hold his gaze for a long time. Instead folded his hands and lifted his head to let his eyes drift to the ceiling, asking for help from a higher entity.

“I understand you have had a challenging life, but I am sure God had his reason for this. Maybe this is why you sent us here, Lord, to save this man,” he said solemnly, before lowering his head to stare at Till again.

Scoffing, Till rolled his eyes and shook his head in disbelief of the priest’s words, only to receive a new stinging slap that left his cheek burning.

“Do not mock God,” Father Lorenz demanded, having regained his composure and stony facial expression. He got up from his chair and fetched a blackboard. Till recognised it. It was used by the elders when teaching village children reading, writing, and simple maths. Picking up a piece of chalk, the priest started writing.

The lack of conversation made Till realise how much his knees were aching. He let himself slump forward and used his forehead to relieve them until the scratching of chalk against blackboard stopped, and Father Lorenz put the chalk down.

“Since you haven’t had any proper teaching, consider this your first lesson. This is the Act of Contrition, and it is to be recited after every confession. Read, and memorise!” the high priest commanded, stepping aside from the blackboard.

Till stared emptily at the words in front of him. “Read!” Father Lorenz repeated, slamming his hand into the blackboard with a bang.

 _“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all of my sins, because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of my love. I firmly resolve with the help of Thy grace to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen,”_ Till read, struggling to keep his voice free from anger and sarcasm.

“Good. Now memorise it. I shall give you a little time.” Picking his up bible, the priest sat down by the window behind Till and started reading.

Repeating the words again and again, Till tried to memorise the prayer, but his aching knees made it hard to concentrate. Wriggling a bit to the side, he sat down heavily on the floor so he could stretch his legs, letting out a sigh of relief.

The sound of a book forcefully being closed shut startled him. Soon after, Till felt a hand grabbing his hair, and his head was pulled back so that he looked into the face of a very angry Father Lorenz.

“Did I say you could stop kneeling?” the priest fumed.

Till gulped, scalp hurting from the tight grip of his hair. “No,” he managed.

“Get up.” Father Lorenz pulled Till’s hair, hard, and Till somehow stumbled up to a standing position. The priest let go of his grip, and stepped over to the small kitchen. Looking through the cupboards, he found a bag that he brought back with him, then he grabbed a handful of dried peas and placed them on the floor. With a swift movement, the high priest grabbed the hem of Till’s tunic, hoisting it up above his red and sore knees, and tucking it into the waist to make sure it stayed up.

“Kneel.” The high priest’s voice was ice cold.

Till hesitated – a little too long. The high priest grabbed his hair with one hand, forcefully bent one of his knees with his foot, and used his other hand to push against Till’s back, hard. Crying out in pain, Till fell to his knees, his weight pressing the peas deep into his skin. Tears sprung from his eyes, and he desperately tried to lean back onto his heels to minimise the pressure on his knees, but Father Lorenz did not let go of his hair and back.

“Please…” Till whimpered.

Father Lorenz ignored the plea. Tightening the grip of Till’s hair, he lifted the man’s head up towards the blackboard. “Now memorise. You have a lot to learn, and we have the entire day if you should need it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fiction is in seven parts. This is an extra update as it was finished sooner than expected. Next update at the end of the week.
> 
> Bonus points if anyone recognised that some quotes from Paul from the Making of Rosenrot were incorporated in the dialogue of Father Landers in the previous chapter.
> 
> Any feedback is appreciated. Thank you for reading.


	4. Father Schneider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Till's third day of punishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The setting for this fiction is from the music video for Rosenrot, without following the story from the video. Warnings for violence and harsh punishment, and likely inaccurate depictions of religion and religious themes.

The silence of his own cottage was soothing. His whole body ached, and his head was spinning, full of words and sentences he had been forced to memorise throughout the day. Till was lying halfway on his stomach on his bed, no position really comfortable. Though in his exhaustion, he lacked the energy to even try to move.

He almost thought he imagined the soft knock on the door, but soon after, he heard the familiar, faint creaking when it opened and then closed again. The last light of the day outlined the tall, hooded figure that had paid Till a visit also the day before.

“Father Riedel,” Till whispered. He didn’t expect an answer, and didn’t get one. The priest put his bag on the table, then he moved over towards the bed. Till felt a hand on his head again, holding him in place as the priest pulled down the top of his tunic to inspect his back. A sigh slipped from the lips of Father Riedel, who then directed his attention to Till’s legs, which made him sigh again.

The young priest straightened up. Palms up, he stretched his hands towards Till, gesturing for him to take them. The priest’s arms were surprisingly strong for such a slender body, and Till felt himself almost lifted up and onto the floor. His legs were wobbly, but Father Riedel did not let go, instead he gently helped him sit down at the edge of the bed.

Retrieving a small bottle from his bag, the priest kneeled in front of Till and lifted the woollen tunic to expose bruised and discoloured knees. Opening the bottle, he poured a blank oil into his palm and rubbed his hands together to warm it up. Father Riedel briefly glanced at Till’s face, as if to ask permission, then he directed his attention at Till’s right knee and slowly started massaging the oil into the skin.

Till gritted his teeth as long fingers worked the ligaments, tendons, and muscles, clenching his hands into tight fists from the pain. Father Riedel warmed up some more oil in his palms, then started on the left knee. After finishing both knees, he put a towel onto the bed to soak up excess oil, and helped Till lie down on his stomach. To his surprise, Till discovered that his knees were less sore after the treatment, and he felt his body relax.

The priest brought Till some food and drink and put on a kettle to boil water. After Till had eaten, he carefully cleaned the man’s back wounds, re-applied honey and a clean cloth, and gently massaged Till’s sore shoulders and wrists to loosen up stiff muscles from being tied up for hours. Looking at the young priest, fully concentrated on his selfless task, Till was overwhelmed by a feeling of extreme gratitude.

“You are a true angel,” he said quietly, at loss for better words. Father Riedel was working on his left wrist, which had marks from where the rope had dug into it. Upon hearing Till’s words, the priest hesitated for a second, looked at Till and smiled, before shaking his head with a small, soundless laugh, picking up where he left off.

\-- 

When Till woke up early the next morning, he noticed that the young priest had brought some extra food while he was asleep. Crawling out of bed, less sore than expected, he washed, ate a small meal, and made sure he was ready for when the two henchmen came to fetch him. He was even allowed to walk to the guest house on his own two feet, although the men had his arms in tight grips to make sure he didn’t try anything, in spite of Till’s assurances that he was not going to.

Though when Father Schneider opened the door and stared at him with his ice blue eyes, everything in Till’s body screamed for him to run. The Roman Catholic priest was still wearing his Padre hat, and the shiny metal buttons on his black cassock along with his black gloves made him look almost military. He gestured for the men to bring Till in, and they happily obliged.

“Do you want him tied up?” one of the men asked, remembering Father Lorenz’s request from the day before.

Father Schneider shook his head with a smile. “That will not be needed. I can tie him up myself should it prove necessary.”

Till shuddered as the priest showed the two men out and closed the door behind them. Pulling two chairs out onto the middle of the room, he motioned for Till to sit down. Reluctantly, Till obliged. Father Schneider proceeded to inspect his back, his knees, and his arms. Muttering something incomprehensible apart from Father Riedel’s name, he sat down in the chair opposite from Till, crossing his arms.

For an uncomfortably long time the priest sat in silence, studying the man in front of him. Till felt stripped by the piercing eyes of the other man. He tried to look him in the eyes, but was unable to hold the gaze for more than a few seconds. The wait felt torturous. Shifting in his chair, he felt more and more uneasy until he just couldn’t take it anymore.

“Please just do whatever it is you are going to do to me and get it over with,” he sighed, looking at the priest with an expression of defeat.

Father Schneider raised his eyebrows. “So impatient… You have a lot to learn,” he stated, keeping his eyes fixed on Till. “Father Lorenz told me that your parents were not around to teach you the correct ways, so it is understandable. I shall help you with this. But first, I will take your confession.”

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It has been one day since my last confession,” Till replied, his response seemed almost automated. “I…”

He stopped. Father Schneider’s eyes became narrow slits under the brim of the hat.

“You know what I have done, Father. I have already confessed to Father Landers and Father Lorenz, and I have paid for my sins – you saw the marks on my body. How many times do I need to do this before your God is satisfied? Or is it so that you each have a different God, and each of them wants to see me punished?”

Pressing his palms against his head in frustration, Till looked at Father Schneider, whose expression had gone from annoyed, to surprised, to angry.

_“On the lips of him who has understanding, wisdom is found, but a rod is for the back of him who lacks sense,”_ the priest snarled. He stood up from the chair, grabbed Till by the collar of his tunic and jerked him up into a standing position. _“Whoever loves discipline loves knowledge, but he who hates reproof is stupid.”_

Father Schneider dragged Till over to a small table. _“Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it,”_ he recited, almost spitting the words at Till. “It is very obvious that you did not receive training as a child, son. Though I shall help you!”

Till was startled by the sudden shift of demeanour. Father Schneider was strong, and Till was forcefully bent over the table. Then he felt the other man lifting up his tunic. He gritted his teeth, realising what would happen. Soon after, his underwear was pulled down, and he shuddered as the cool air met bare skin.

The priest leaned so close that Till could feel his breath against his cheek. “You shall stay in this position, or I shall tie you up so that you do,” Father Schneider hissed into his ear.

With quick steps, the priest walked over to the closet. Till could hear the swishing of a cane being whipped through the air. The sound brought him back to his childhood, to the numerous beatings he had taken from his guardian, always on his bottom so that no one would see the marks. Not that people did not know he was being hit. His screams could probably be heard throughout the entire village, and the tell-tale looks he got after the harshest beatings told him that everyone knew. They just chose to ignore it, and it was easy when no bruises were visible. After all, he should praise his luck, a poor child being brought up by an elder of high standing in the community.

Till remembered how he had been sent out to cut his own switch from the trees behind the house, and how he always had to choose a thick one because the time he tried to bring back a thin switch, he had been beaten until it broke for trying to get off lightly. Then he had been sent out again to get a proper one for his actual punishment.

The first strike of the cane snapped him back to the present. Father Schneider delivered it with maximum force, and Till groaned from the sharp initial pain followed by his nerve receptors kicking in to tell him how much it really hurt. The next strike hit just in time for the pain not to subside much, and Till gritted his teeth, clutching the edge of the table in order not to move.

_“Blessed is the man whom you discipline, O Lord, and whom you teach out of your law!”_ Father Schneider continued quoting the Bible while using the cane to accentuate the words he found important.

The pain was so overwhelming that Till was gasping for air. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to focus on anything but his bottom and thighs that were being assaulted by the priest. Gripping his sore, left wrist as hard as he could with his right hand, digging his fingers into the bruises left by the ropes, he forced his brain to shift some of the attention away. Still, he couldn’t escape the searing hot pain that made his backside feel like it was on fire.

As from a distance, Till heard someone screaming. Then he realised it was himself.

After what seemed like an eternity, Father Schneider stopped. It took Till a while to understand that he was no longer being beaten. Still clutching his wrist, still bracing for the next strike, he held his position, and his body jolted when he felt a hand tracing the angry, red stripes that covered his backside.

_“For the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it,”_ Father Schneider said, his voice calmer than before and with a satisfied ring to it.

With strong arms, he hoisted Till up to a standing position. Father Schneider pulled him back to the chair and pushed him onto the hard wood. A cry escaped Till’s lips as his body collapsed onto the seat. He leaned forward, panting heavily, his forearms on his thighs to try and take away some of the weight from his bottom and thighs.

From under his brown bangs, Till could see the Roman catholic priest leaning back in his chair, slowly tapping the cane against his palm. The icy blue eyes were studying him again, mouth pulled into a strict frown.

Knowing that speaking would not be smart, Till stayed silent while trying to make his thoughts drift away from everything that hurt. He let his eyes wander while waiting for the priest to say something. His left wrist had fresh bruises from his own fingers. Father Schneider’s shoes were shiny, probably polished very recently. In between two floorboards, he could see a pea that had escaped the clean-up after the day before.

When closing his eyes, Father Landers’s soothing hymn entered his mind. Till could feel Father Riedel’s gentle hands as he tended to his wounds. He could hear Father Kruspe’s voice telling him that the three first days would be the hardest. Desperately holding on to those moments, Till willed himself to find strength to endure. He would not let himself be broken by physical pain, he had lived through that as a child, he would live through it now. After all, he only had one really bad day to go, then the worst should be over.

“You are strong,” Father Schneider suddenly said, as if he had heard Till’s thoughts. “You never moved out of position, and you took the beating well. I take it you have tasted the rod before.”

“Too many times.” Till’s voice was raspy and hoarse.

“Pity it was not used constructively,” the priest mused. “So, tell me, have you learned anything?”

Till took a moment to reflect on what Father Schneider wanted to hear, silently hoping that it could shorten his day of agony. “I – learned that I need to be patient,” he started, glancing at the priest to check his reaction.

Since his words did not seem to infuriate him, Till continued: “And I learned that I have a lot to learn, and that I am grateful for your help in teaching me. Thank you, Father.”

For the first time, Father Schneider’s eyes expressed something other than coldness and anger. He seemed genuinely surprised, the frown disappeared, and there was almost a mildness in his face. It only lasted for a few seconds though, then he regained his composure, and the stern face was back.

“You are welcome, my son. I am glad that you are receptive to discipline, it means there is hope for you,” the priest said, pensively, still tapping the cane against his palm. For a while, he seemed to be deep in his own thoughts, sometimes staring at Till, sometimes letting his eyes drift somewhere else, but then he suddenly stood up with a determined look.

“It is a pity I only have one day with you, but I shall do my best to cleanse you of your sins and lead you onto the right path,” he declared.

Till swallowed. As Father Schneider lead him back to the table, he realised that his day was far from over, and soon after, his pained screams resonated throughout the village yet again.


	5. Father Riedel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Till's fourth day of punishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The setting for this fiction is from the music video for Rosenrot, without following the story from the video. Warnings for violence and harsh punishment, and likely inaccurate depictions of religion and religious themes.

Never before had Till been in so much pain. Back in his own bed, at last, he drifted in and out of consciousness, the periods he was gone providing him with some much-needed relief while the times he was awake seemed like pure agony.

He did not know when Father Riedel had entered his cottage. Though when he opened his eyes after being out for – he did not know how long – the young priest was sitting by his bed, holding his hand, deep concern displayed as furrows on his forehead and big, sad eyes underneath the black hood.

When he noticed Till was awake, he let go of his hand and promptly offered him water, lifting his head gently while holding the bottle towards his mouth. Till only managed small sips, but the priest was patient and waited until the bottle was empty. Then he quickly refilled it before returning to the bed.

Till was on his way back into unconsciousness, so Father Riedel put the bottle down on the floor so he could fish a sugar cube out from a jar. After dipping it in honey, he placed it inside Till’s mouth to provide him with some energy. The young man gently stroked Till’s hair until he could see weary eyes fall shut, then he sighed deeply, retrieved his remedies from his bag and started tending to the wounded body on the bed.

It was almost dark when Till came to again, but Father Riedel was still by his bed, holding his hand. Till was given water to drink and another sugar cube with honey before the priest looked at him, moving his hand up towards his mouth with a questioning look.

“Please,” Till replied, his voice hoarse and weak. Father Riedel smiled. Fishing out food from his bag, he placed it within reach of the lying man, then he fetched more water and watched contently as Till ate. It wasn’t until he had stilled the worst hunger that Till realised that he was in significantly less pain than he had been earlier, and the sudden revelation made him abruptly stop chewing.

Father Riedel’s face instantly displayed a look of concern. “No, no, there is nothing wrong,” Till reassured him, mouth full of bread and ham. “I just noticed that the worst pain is gone.”

The young priest let out a sigh of relief, then he smiled warmly at Till, pressed his palms together in silent prayer, and bowed his head. Till, having finished chewing and swallowing his bite, stretched his arm out and placed his hand on Father Riedel’s knee, causing the priest to look up again.

“Thank you so much,” he started, struggling to keep his emotions in check. “I don’t believe in a god, but you are a true godsend. Father, I don’t know how I would get through this without you. I am grateful beyond words, and I hope to one day be able to repay you for your kindness.”

Big, blue eyes met Till’s, and the young man smiled again behind his beard as he rested a hand on top of the one on his knee. Placing the other one on Till’s head, he gently stroked the brown hair while closing his eyes and bowing his head, seemingly in prayer.

The priest’s hands were warm and comforting. Till closed his eyes. For a moment, he forgot about his aching body and the torment and the villagers and the elders. An overwhelming feeling of being safe and taken care of filled his body, and tears welled up behind his eyelids.

When Father Riedel ended his wordless prayer, Till was sobbing quietly. The young man studied him with a mild expression on his face. While Till let his emotions flow, the priest slowly rubbed his thumb against the back of the crying man’s hand, silently showing his support, and when the crying subsided, he gently patted Till on the head before refilling the water bottle and fetching a moist cloth for Till to wash his face.

“Thank you,” Till managed, wiping his face and blowing his nose. The priest quickly retrieved the cloth and handed Till the bottle, motioning for him to drink and eat. Till complied.

The sun was setting. While Till ate, Father Riedel lit a candle and put it on the table by the window. Staring outside, he could see light from a few windows here and there, but no one was outside to break the peace and quiet. Darkness embraced the small village, and the young priest felt his mind wandering.

A noise from Till broke him out of his train of thoughts, and made him turn towards the bed. “I am afraid I won’t be able to get up myself, and…” Till said, casting his eyes down in embarrassment, “…and I need to – uh – relieve myself.”

Father Riedel smiled and nodded. Soon after, strong arms lifted Till out of bed. The movement made his body ache again, and he gritted his teeth as he clung to the priest’s arm while wobbling towards the bathroom. He stopped hesitatingly in front of the bathroom door, but the priest promptly opened it and helped Till inside. While Till used the toilet, he politely turned his head away, but he stayed to make sure Till did not stumble or fall. Till took the opportunity to brush his teeth, and then he let the priest guide him back to the bed where he almost collapsed onto the mattress.

“Angel…” he whispered before closing his eyes. The last thing Till felt before falling asleep, was Father Riedel’s hand gently stroking his hair again.

When Till woke up, the morning light had just begun seeping through the windows. As he stretched, he was reminded of the abuse he had endured over the past few days, and a loud moan escaped his lips.

The creaking of a chair made him turn his head just as Father Riedel unfolded his long body from where he apparently had spent the night under a thin blanket. The priest was swiftly by Till’s side, offering him water, which he happily accepted. While his body was sore, it was much less so than the previous night. Till even managed to crawl out of bed unassisted, but accepted Father Riedel’s arm to lean on while crossing the floor to the bathroom – this time going in alone.

After taking a pee and washing, Till felt a lot better. It was not until he was halfway on his way back to the bed that it dawned upon him that this was only day four of his five days of punishment. The realisation made him whimper and he grew weak in the knees, only the priest’s strong arm kept him standing. Father Riedel slowly helped him lie down again before kneeling by the bed, clutching Till’s hand, the worried expression silently asking what was wrong.

Till swallowed hard. “I am afraid, Father. The elder’s men will come and get me soon, and – I don’t know if I can take any more,” he whispered.

To his surprise, the young priest just smiled warmly at him, lifting a hand to his own chest. Till hesitated – but then he understood. He bit his lower lip, fighting back tears. Father Riedel’s hand still held on to his, and Till clutched it back, not wanting to let go of his anchor.

They stayed like that until the footsteps of the two burly workers could be heard outside. Father Riedel immediately stood up. Straightening his tunic, he faced the door and crossed his arms. Till was surprised at how the kind and calm priest suddenly appeared strict and imposing, the tall frame towering in the room when the young man did not keep his head lowered, like Till realised he normally did.

Seconds later, the two men were equally surprised as they barged in and met the young priest’s fierce expression. “Whoa, what are you doing here?” one of them blurted out, only to be met by silence.

“Hey, we’re just here to take him to the guest house. Elder’s orders,” the other one stuttered, lifting his hands defensively while taking a cautious step towards the bed.

Father Riedel promptly extended his right arm towards them, palm facing forward, stopping the two of them dead in their tracks. “But…” the first one started, but the priest just shook his head. The workers looked at each other, bewildered, but when Father Riedel took a step towards them, they decided it was not worth staying.

“We were just doing our job, we need to inform the elder of this,” one of them muttered as they exited the cottage.

As soon as they had left, Father Riedel started putting his things back in his bag. He then got Till out of bed, found his tunic, socks, and shoes, and helped him put them on. The priest had just wrapped a blanket gently around Till’s shoulders as the two men came back, this time accompanied by the elder.

“What is going on here?” the elder asked briskly, looking at Father Riedel. The young priest just shrugged, unfazed, and started guiding Till towards the door. The two henchmen exchanged confused glances as Father Riedel ignored both them and the elder, helping Till outside where they started walking towards the guest house.

“So what exactly did you two drag me out here for?” The two workers cowered when they heard the irritation in the elder’s voice.

“He… The priest… He was threatening us when we went to fetch Lindemann,” one of them stuttered.

“He threatened you? Two strong men afraid of a young priest who is skinny as a twig and doesn’t even speak? Now you two get out of here before I ask the four other priests to take care of you, since you are so scared of them!” the elder fumed, and the two men quickly scurried off.

As they slowly moved across the common area towards the guest house, Till could hear Father Riedel chuckling quietly from the debacle taking place behind them. Till managed to hold it in until they were inside, but as soon as the door was closed, he broke down laughing.

“You, the nicest man I have ever met, really scared them. Unbelievable!” he grinned after getting his breath back, wiping away tears of laughter with his sleeve.

The young priest smiled broadly. “I can be very scary.”

Till froze. “You – speak?”

Father Riedel nodded.

“Then why didn’t you speak until now?” Till looked puzzled.

“I took a vow of silence.” The priest started unpacking food from his bag and put it on the table, then he fetched a water bottle and glasses from the kitchen after putting on a kettle. Putting a thick pillow onto one of the chairs, he waved Till over.

“It will hurt when you sit down, but it should pass fast,” he said, pointing to the chair before heading back to the kitchen.

Till gritted his teeth and sat down, gingerly. The initial pain made him grimace, but it soon subsided. Father Riedel came back with two cups of tea and some more food that he placed on the table before sitting down himself, pulling the hood down, revealing his tonsured hair. “Help yourself,” he said to Till, grabbing a piece of bread and some cheese after mumbling a quick prayer.

The tea smelled wonderful, and Till took a small sip, careful not to burn his lips. Still thrown off by the fact that the young priest was actually talking, he couldn’t help staring, head full of questions.

“You can ask later. Eat first,” Father Riedel remarked without even looking up from his food, as if he could read Till’s thoughts.

“Sorry,” Till mumbled, a little embarrassed, and reached for a piece of bread.

As soon as he started eating, Till realised how hungry he was. The two of them ate in silence. It didn’t take long until most of the food was gone and a tiny piece of cheese was the only thing left on the table.

“Still hungry?” Father Riedel asked after finishing his last egg.

Popping the last piece of cheese into his mouth, Till shook his head. He sighed contently and leaned back only to whimper as he had totally forgotten about his back.

“Your back has not fully healed, but it looked better today. Your knees should not be sore for too long, but the black marks will take a little while to get rid of,” Father Riedel said, very matter-of-factly.

“As for yesterday…“ He paused slightly before he continued. “The skin was broken in several places. I cleaned and dressed your wounds and applied some soothing liniment, but there is a lot of welting and you have stripes and discolouration all the way down to the back of your knees. There are even a few marks on your calves. I cannot remember seeing marks like these from Father Schneider. You must have really angered him.”

Till huffed. “Yeah, I did. And then I made the mistake of thanking him for the first beating, thinking he might let me off easier. Instead he thought I was receptive to it and decided to help me by beating the sin out of me.”

Father Riedel raised his eyebrows. Unable to suppress a small laughter, he looked down and shook his head. “That would do it,” he chuckled. “Father Schneider is a firm believer in strict discipline.”

“Hey, it’s not easy to understand you priests,” Till muttered, faking indignance. “One day I have to whip myself, then I am forced to kneel and memorise prayers and bible verses, then I am beaten until I pass out. And now there is you…”

Till hesitated before he continued. “…I cannot help being afraid that you will need to torment me, too?”

The priest looked up. His blue eyes met Till’s, and Till immediately saw genuine surprise and a hint of disappointment in the young man’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, and cast his eyes down, ashamed. “You have been nothing but kind to me. It was wrong of me to think this of you. I just don’t know what to expect anymore.”

Reaching across the table, Father Riedel rested his hand upon Till’s. “No, I am the one who must apologise,” he said quietly. “It was inconsiderate of me not to think of how this must be for you. Please forgive me.”

“I have told you already that you are a godsend, Father. You have done nothing wrong, there is nothing to forgive,” Till smiled. “I do have some questions though, if you don’t mind.”

The priest nodded.

“You said you had taken a vow of silence, but now you are talking to me. I don’t think I understand how that works?”

Father Riedel thought for a few seconds. “A vow of silence does not mean I cannot talk at all,” he started. “I choose the rules for when I allow myself to speak, and when I stay silent. For this period, I had originally decided not to speak at all. However, given the circumstances, I found that I needed to make an exception. I considered speaking from the first day I visited your cottage, but I eventually decided I would do it only during my day with you, here, in this house. It is only fair that you don’t have to sit here in silence, and I imagined you could need someone to talk to.”

“I appreciate that, Father. May I ask why you took this vow of silence?”

“For several reasons. I believe that less speaking makes me a better listener. Also, I enjoy silence, and some of the priests are very talkative. When I don’t reply, they often shut up or talk to each other instead,” he said, and Till thought he could hear a tiny bit of shame in his voice. “Finally, I chose not to speak as penance for what happened in the last village we visited. I strongly disagreed with someone and was very vocal about it. It was the wrong approach, and I need to learn to control myself in such situations.”

Till suddenly realised that the priest still had his hand on top of his own. He put his other hand on top of the priest’s and gave it a light squeeze. “You seem very different from the other priests,” he remarked.

Father Riedel sighed. “I saw so much unfairness and recently took my vows because I want to make the lives of others better, not because I wanted to preach about sin and discipline. In my village, I helped the sick and the wounded. However, there is a restlessness in me, I like moving and being in nature, so I joined the others not long ago when they came by. I am sure they sometimes regret letting me, but they do not complain when I tend to their wounds after self-flagellation.”

“I understand why,” Till said gratefully. “But Father – who tends to your wounds?”

The young man shrugged. “No one, but I am okay. The pain reminds me that I am alive.”

Till stood up from his chair. Ignoring the pain, he knelt beside the young priest and lowered his head. “Please, let me do it for you. It is the least I can do after all you have done for me,” he almost begged.

Father Riedel didn’t reply. Instead, he reached into his bag, pulled out his honey jar, and put it on the table. Till got up on his feet and moved behind the priest. With careful hands, he loosened the man’s robes and pulled them over his shoulders, revealing a muscular back, scarred, with fresh wounds from a recent session of self-flagellation.

Till almost gasped at the sight, but managed to contain himself. Is this how my back is looking, he wondered as he reached for the jar and unscrewed it. While he did not know exactly what to do, he tried to remember the feeling of Father Riedel’s hand against his own back. After dipping his fingers into the surprisingly liquid honey, he ran them as gentle as he could across the priest’s wounds, leaving a glistening, thin layer on the sore skin.

Taking his time, Till made sure everything that needed to be was covered. Looking around, he saw a pile of clean pieces of cloth, and after fetching one, he carefully placed it across the priest’s back so the honey wouldn’t stick to his robes as he pulled them back up and over his shoulders. Then he put the lid on the jar.

“Thank you,” he said, almost inaudible, as he handed the honey back to the priest.

Father Riedel looked up at him, then turned away to put the jar back into his bag. Till could have sworn his eyes were a bit blank. Moving back to his chair, he took a deep breath before sitting back down onto the thick pillow. Maybe it was just his imagination – but his body felt a lot lighter, and he found himself smiling through the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fiction is in seven parts. This is an extra update as it was finished sooner than expected. Next update at the end of the week.
> 
> Any feedback is appreciated. Thank you for reading.


	6. Father Kruspe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Till's fifth day of punishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The setting for this fiction is from the music video for Rosenrot, without following the story from the video. Warnings for violence and harsh punishment, and likely inaccurate depictions of religion and religious themes.

Till’s day with Father Riedel passed faster than he would have liked. The young priest was both knowledgeable and reflected, and they spent most of the time talking. Till took great pleasure in hearing Father Riedel’s stories about his home village, about how he was taught to look after sick and wounded, and about the things he had seen and experienced while wandering. He was even treated to some funny stories about the other priests that made them less scary in his head.

Till didn’t feel like he had a lot to offer in return. Having grown up in the tiny village, he had only heard and read about the world outside of it. Yet Father Riedel happily listened to him talking about his favourite areas surrounding the village, and he took great interest in how the little community worked. Though when Till quietly told him about his childhood and youth, the priest’s eyes went dark and his face hardened. Till realised that «I can be very scary» was not just a joke.

In between their conversations, Till was given both lunch and dinner. It had been days since he had eaten a hot meal, and the simple dinner of meat and vegetables almost made him jump from joy, to Father Riedel’s amusement.

Only when the warm colours of the evening light started flowing through the curtains, he was reminded that the day was coming to an end, and that he still had one day left until he had paid the price for his insolence. He fell quiet.

“Tell me about your fears.” Father Riedel’s voice was comforting and understanding.

Till swallowed, and closed his eyes. “I…” he started. Words did not come to him. The intense fear he had felt four nights earlier was not there anymore. Where there had been turmoil, there was calm. Surprised, he opened his eyes and looked at the younger man. “I believe I am less afraid than I thought I would be.”

A big smile spread across the face of the priest. “I thought so,” he nodded. “I have faith that you are strong enough to handle whatever tomorrow might bring.”

Soon after, the two of them got ready to walk back to Till’s cabin. Father Riedel packed some food and remedies in his bag, and moved towards the door. “I am bringing some food for you for tomorrow morning, and when we get back to your cabin, I will tend to your wounds again before I leave. Just remember, as soon as we exit this building, I will not talk anymore, but you can ask me yes-no questions if you want.”

The priest looked at Till, who nodded in understanding. “Will you stop by tomorrow night?” he pleaded, and sighed from relief when Father Riedel assured him that he would.

\--

To Till’s surprise, the two henchmen knocked before entering when they came to get him the following morning. They even let him finish clearing the table after his breakfast before asking him to follow them.

“Also, the priest kindly requests that you bring your poetry book,” one of them said, so politely that Till almost shuddered from their current shift in demeanour.

Though as the three of them left the cabin, he saw Father Riedel sitting in the common area, reading. The young priest looked up as they passed. Till could almost feel the two workers cowering, and he could have sworn that the priest winked at him when the two of them didn’t look.

Soon after, Till found himself outside the door of the guest house once again, feeling unusually relaxed. Then Father Kruspe answered the door.

Till was flabbergasted. The priest had exchanged his black, flowing robes for a tight-fitting cassock that displayed his curved body, and he was not wearing his elaborate headgear either. Instead, he revealed a full head of black hair, styled into spikes, giving him a striking look with his high cheekbones and full lips. Till had never seen a man like that, much less a priest, and he had to force himself not to stare.

“Come in, Till – can I call you Till? And thank you, that will be all,” Father Kruspe said, dismissing the two workers with a wave of his hand. They happily took off, apparently not too fond of being close to any of the priests anymore, as they made sure to walk in a big circle around Father Riedel on their way back to their own quarters.

Till was too perplexed to say anything. He entered the guest house, and quickly closed his mouth when he realised that it had dropped open at the sight of the other man. Clutching his poetry book in his hands, he stood in the middle of the floor, looking a bit lost, while Father Kruspe closed and locked the door behind him.

“So Till…” Till almost jumped when he heard Father Kruspe’s murmuring right next to his ear, so close that he could feel the warm breath from the priest against his neck. A mixture of adrenaline and something else, something he was not sure what was, made the hair on his body stand straight up. He swallowed; words stuck in his throat.

“…finally, it is my turn. I have been looking forward to this.” Father Kruspe moved to stand in front of Till, looking straight at him, with a big smile on his lips. Till suddenly felt very aware of his own looks. Thanks to Father Riedel, he had been able to get a proper wash, but the once white tunic was blood-stained and dirty, and for some reason, he wished that he had fixed his hair instead of just letting his dark bangs hang messily across his forehead. He cast his eyes down, ashamed without really knowing why.

“Undress.” The priest took the notebook from Till and placed it on the table.

Till froze, a surge of dread flowing through his body.

“Undress,” the priest repeated. His voice was friendly, but demanding.

Slowly, Till loosened the rope belt around his waist and pulled his tunic over his head, dropping it on the floor, revealing his scarred skin.

“The rest, too.” Father Kruspe crossed his arms impatiently.

Till swallowed. He started untying his boots, removing them one by one, then his wool socks, trying to keep himself modest as long as possible. Finally, he could not delay it anymore. Taking a deep breath, he slipped his fingers into the waistband of his undergarments, and pulled them down, letting them, too, fall to the floor.

“Tell me about your week.” Father Kruspe slowly circled the naked man in front of him, inspecting Till’s body closely, paying extra attention to his scars.

Till was suddenly glad he had not fixed his hair. Taking the slightest comfort in having the bangs partially covering his eyes, he started explaining how Father Landers had made him whip himself.

The touch of fingers tracing the scarring on his back made him gasp in shock, and his whole body stiffened. “Shh, go on,” Father Kruspe insisted. His touch was so light, it was not painful at all, instead, Till felt heat rising in his face, and he had to work hard to concentrate on talking, or rather, to distract himself from what Father Kruspe was doing.

This became increasingly harder when he moved on to Father Lorenz’s session. Kneeling in front of Till, Father Kruspe shifted his attention to Till’s knees, circling the kneecaps with his fingertips, his spiky hair dangerously close to Till’s crotch. Till heard his own voice getting strained and choppy. Desperately, he started reciting the prayers Father Lorenz had forced him to memorise.

“Good boy,” Father Kruspe smirked when he heard the prayers. “But - I hear these prayers way too often as it is. Go on. Father Schneider.”

Till sighed from relief when Father Kruspe again moved behind him – until he felt the priest’s fingertips touching him again, this time following the cane lines on his buttocks and thighs. Blood started rushing to where he really did not want it to go. Realising he would be unable to control it, he took a deep breath, kept talking, and let it happen. Using his hands to cover himself, he nursed an irrational thought of the priest perhaps not noticing.

A hum from behind him told him that his condition had not gone unnoticed. “Oh Till,” Father Kruspe almost giggled, “remove your hands. You should not be ashamed of something totally natural.”

Beet red, Till let his hands slide apart. Finding some spot in the ceiling to stare at, he started talking about Father Riedel. Though when Father Kruspe moved in front of him again and Till felt his eyes all over his body and specifically on a certain part of it, his sentences became incoherent, and eventually he just gave up.

“Please,” he pleaded.

“Please what?” Father Kruspe grinned mischievously.

“Just – just please,” Till stuttered.

“You have to be more specific than that.” The priest slid close to Till, so close that Till could smell him, a masculine scent with a touch of smoke. With light fingers, he brushed Till’s bangs away from his eyes, removing the last tiny bit of cover from the naked man.

Humiliated, Till turned his head away. Father Kruspe chuckled. He placed his palm on Till’s cheek, gently turning his head back so it faced him. “I said don’t be ashamed,” he insisted, moving even closer.

Only a few centimetres of air separated their foreheads. Till could feel the rough fabric of the cassock against his thigh, the breath of the priest on his face. He clenched his fists, his body stiff and aching in more than one way. Father Kruspe’s hand lay softly on his cheek, preventing him from turning away again.

“Look at me.”

Till swallowed and let his eyes meet Father Kruspe’s. He could see every detail in the other man’s eyes, every line, every little movement of the pupil, every slight colour change of the iris. It was hypnotising, exciting, and scary at the same time. Till felt needs he never even knew he had, and if he did, he would probably not have admitted to it anyway.

“Good boy.” Father Kruspe patted him lightly on the cheek, then moved away to pick up Till’s poetry book. Till exhaled and realised how tense the presence of the other man had made him. He also realised that he missed having him close.

The priest sat down in a chair, crossed his legs, and lit a cigarette, placing it between his lips. Then he picked up Till’s poetry book and flipped it open. Till tried to read the expression on his face as he went through some of the pages, but drew a blank.

“What do you feel right now?” Father Kruspe suddenly asked, not looking up from the book.

Once again, words were failing Till.

“Well, except from aroused,” the priest remarked dryly, glancing quickly at Till to confirm his own statement.

If it had been possible, Till would have become even redder. Shifting uneasily from foot to foot, he tried to think of every unpleasant thing he could imagine, but his treacherous mind kept going back to the man in front of him.

“Why are you doing this,” he sighed, his voice thick of desperation.

“You are a sinner. This is your punishment!” Father Kruspe laughed, but without any hostility in his laughter. Looking up from the book again, he stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray, and tilted his head slightly, almost coquettish.

“You know…” he started, pensively, “…without sin, there would be no need for any forgiving gods. Also, without sin, there would be no point in seeking penance. We keep flogging ourselves to cleanse ourselves of sin, so we might as well have something to cleanse ourselves of, no? Or else we would be flogging ourselves for nothing.”

Putting the book aside, he got up from his chair and moved over to Till again, placing himself straight in front of him, so close that Till could feel the rough texture of the cassock where he really did not need to feel something like that at this moment in time. Breathing slowly and heavily, in and out, he bit the inside of his lower lip, staring at his spot in the ceiling.

He felt the hand of Father Kruspe sliding around his neck, loosely grabbing his hair. The priest leaned in, so close that their noses were merely centimetres away from each other.

_“Lay your face  
on a sheet of paper  
it’s already a poem  
and will live”_

Father Kruspe’s voice was almost singing, as if he was holding a sermon. 

For a moment, Till stopped breathing completely. Hearing his poetry recited like that gave him goose bumps. He shivered as he exhaled, his breath hitched, his mind was racing, searching for words, something to say, but the only thing on his mind was Father Kruspe, his voice, his scent, his touch...

The priest lowered his voice to almost a whisper.

_“How could you even dream_  
_that I would say to you_  
_what I hardly dare think”_

As he spoke, he pushed Till’s head gently forward until their foreheads touched. His fingers were still entangled in Till’s hair, but he started slowly moving them, making small circles against the skin. Trying to look anywhere but into Father Kruspe’s eyes, Till couldn’t help letting out small, desperate groans. The intimacy was torturous. His entire body was tense, aching for some kind of release, any kind. Even another beating would be better than this.

“I still want you to look at me.” Tightening his grip, Father Kruspe lightly tugged at Till’s hair, urging him to obey.

Till took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked straight into the intoxicating eyes of the priest. Angling slightly down at the edges, they almost looked sad, especially up close when he couldn’t see the rest of his face well. The colour was an almost indeterminable mix of blue and grey, depending on how much light hit them, sometimes with a touch of brown around the pupil. A few faint lines revealed that the man had lived for some years. Till found the wrinkles beautiful. He wanted to touch them, he wanted to feel the priest’s skin under his fingertips, feel his lips against his own lips, his body against his own body.

“So Till – you never answered what you feel right now,” Father Kruspe purred.

“Didn’t you answer that yourself just a few minutes ago?” Till was unable to hide the frustration in his voice.

“Maybe I want to hear you say it,” the priest smirked.

Till let out a deep sigh. “I have never wanted to sin as much as I do right now, Father.”

“Then sin with me,” Father Kruspe whispered, and with a gentle pull, he moved Till’s lips towards his own.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poetry used in this chapter is taken from _On Quiet Nights_ , the official English translation of Till Lindemann's poetry book _In stillen Nächten_. Translator is Ehren Fordyce. The two poems are _So beautiful (So schön)_ and _I love you (Ich liebe dich)._


	7. Postludium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amen.

Till was deep in thoughts when light knocks on his door pulled him back to the present. Soon after, he heard the door open, followed by the footsteps of Father Riedel entering his cabin and the sound of the priest closing the door behind him.

Lying on the side in his bed, facing the door, Till didn’t move. He kept his eyes closed as another wave of anxiety and confusion hit him with full force. Memories of his day with Father Kruspe flashed before his eyes yet again, the things they had done – things he had never experienced before, things that had made him feel so good, but that should have made him feel bad, because he had been taught it was wrong and sinful. And now he almost felt like he was back to square one, he was still a sinner, perhaps even more so than before.

Till felt the mattress compress slightly as Father Riedel sat down beside him. The priest placed his hand gently on Till’s shoulder to let him know he was there, and the friendly gesture was simply too much. Unable to control his emotions, Till started crying. Curling up, he buried his face into the priest’s thigh as loud sobs escaped him and his entire body shook. Father Riedel responded by cradling Till’s head in his arms, holding him while letting him cry.

Gently stroking Till’s hair, the priest heard the older man’s sobs subsiding, then his breathing slowed down little by little until he was calm. The priest held him for a little while longer before getting up to fetch a damp cloth and a bottle of water.

“Thank you,” Till said quietly after a quick wash and a sip of water. He let his head sink heavily into the pillow as the Franciscan priest put the water bottle down on the floor.

Father Riedel’s eyes were full of compassion and concern. He smiled wearily at Till, taking his hand, clutching it lightly. Tipping his head slightly, he let Till know – without words – that he was there to offer any support needed.

The young man’s hand was warm and comforting. Longing for more physical contact, Till braced himself and scooted closer to the wall, making room in the bed.

“Could you – hold me? Please?” he asked shyly, giving the priest a pleading look.

Father Riedel looked slightly surprised, but smiled, and nodded. He let go of Till’s hand to take off his boots. Soon after his long body was stretched out on the mattress as much as the length of the bed allowed. Resting his head against the priest’s chest, Till could feel the brown beard against his forehead and the slender, but strong arm of the young priest around his shoulder.

For a long time, they lay in silence. Father Riedel’s heartbeat was steady and rhythmical. Till could feel the priest’s chest rise and fall slightly with each breath, and he felt content and completely safe. Slowly the realisation that his punishment was over started to dawn on him.

“I survived,” he smiled wearily, and felt Father Riedel nod in response.

Till’s thoughts travelled back to the previous days. He remembered his initial fear and the pain he had to endure, but to his surprise, he did not feel resentment towards the clergymen. Father Landers had been both understanding and mild, and he had been right – self-flagellation had felt cleansing despite the pain. Father Lorenz had been strict, yet he had been so in order to teach what he thought was important. While Father Schneider had been brutal in his punishment, he had only done so because he strongly believed it would help cleanse Till of a lifetime of sin.

Then there was Father Riedel, whose kindness and compassion had taught him that priesthood was not just about sin and punishment, but about selflessness and a genuine wish to become a better person and to do good. 

And finally, there was Father Kruspe… Father Kruspe, who had given him a perspective on sin that was so different from what had always been instilled in him. The priest who had taught him things that almost made him blush just thinking of them. The one who had taught him that he was not too ugly for desire and affection. Had he just not felt so confused…

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It has been two days since my last confession.” The words felt strangely natural to him. Till could feel Father Riedel stir a little from the unexpected words, but a gentle clutch at his shoulder made him know that he was being heard. Pouring out all his thoughts, anxiety, and confusion, Till told Father Riedel everything that had happened during his day with Father Kruspe, every sinful thought, every forbidden feeling, every dirty detail.

While Till confessed, Father Riedel lay there listening. Not until after he was done, did Till dare look at him. Lifting his head slightly, his eyes hesitatingly met the eyes of the priest, afraid to find disappointment and contempt.

“…am I a bad person, Father?” he asked quietly.

Father Riedel’s big, blue eyes held nothing but understanding, and he let out a small and good-natured chuckle. Shaking his head, he placed a hand gently on Till’s head, then closed his eyes in silent prayer.

Till closed his eyes, too. Breathing slowly, he felt his anxiety leave him, almost as if Father Riedel pulled it out of him. When the priest removed his hand, Till exhaled deeply and looked at the priest again. Then he cited the Act of Contrition, flawlessly, word for word.

_“…I firmly resolve with the help of Thy grace to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen.”_

Father Riedel nodded pensively. Then he smiled.

\-- 

Father Riedel stayed with Till for most of the evening. Before leaving, he provided him with both food and drink, and tended to his wounds that seemed to be healing well.

Despite being exhausted, Till couldn’t sleep. Once alone, thoughts kept returning to him, dark and troubled thoughts, and no matter how much he tried to shake it, he was unable to. He felt anxiety and fear looming over him as dark, ominous clouds, and he found himself shivering, just as he had done that first night before he was to meet with Father Landers.

Giving up on sleep, Till got up from bed. After pacing restlessly back and forth on the floor for a while, he poured himself some wine, sat down by the window, and opened his poetry book on a blank page. The nothingness screamed at him. Putting his pen onto the paper, he scribbled down two short sentences.

_On quiet nights there cries a man  
For remember still he can_

A tear fell onto the page, blending with the ink, forming a stain.

Till knew what he had to do. In one big gulp, he emptied the cup of wine. Getting up, he searched his cupboard and found what he was looking for; a pair of sharp scissors. Then he went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

\-- 

The morning sun rose over the rooftops, slowly lighting up the sky in bright pastels, making the dew glitter on the trees and the grass. A rooster was crowing somewhere, and the village was slowly coming to life.

Out in the common area, the five clergymen had already gathered, getting ready to leave, all back in their travelling garb. Father Kruspe was lifting a cigarette to his mouth, inhaling deeply while watching Father Lorenz having one last talk with the village elders.

“Father, let me express once again how grateful we are for your handling of Lindemann. On several occasions, we could hear that he was being properly punished, and we shall hope he has now learned his lesson. Please accept this small token of appreciation.” The head council smiled his broadest smile while shaking Father Lorenz’s hand, handing him a small pouch.

“He is a good man who understood that he had done wrong and accepted his punishment. You should not be too hard on him,” Father Landers remarked.

The head council’s smile stiffened. He stared at the small Carthusian priest, struggling to hide the contempt in his voice. “We shall see,” he said curtly, and turned back to Father Lorenz.

Father Riedel was on his way to check on Till one last time before leaving when the door to the cabin opened. He gasped loudly in surprise, making both the other priests as well as the elders turn to look – making them, too, gasp.

Till was standing in the doorway. He was wearing the white tunic he had worn during his punishment, but he had covered the front and the back with a long, black piece of fabric to hide the worst of the dirt and bloodstains. His hair was mostly gone, cut so short that he had red scars here and there after nicking the skin with his scissors. In his hand, he held his linen bag, filled up with a select few of his worldly possessions.

The silence was deafening. No one said a word as Till exited his cabin and walked over to the Anglican protestant high priest and the head council, whose mouth hung open in disbelief.

“Please let me join you.” Till fell to his knees in front of the high priest, pressing his palms together, looking straight into the light blue eyes behind the glasses.

“I… We can’t… You can’t…” Father Lorenz started, clearly thrown off by the unexpected request.

“Let him.” The Eastern Orthodox priest nonchalantly tapped the ashes off his cigarette before lifting it to his mouth again. “We should at least vote over it.”

While the clergymen looked at each other, bewildered, the head council had regained his composure. Clenching his fist, he hit Till in the face with full force, sending the kneeling man to the ground.

“Who do you think you are, Lindemann, embarrassing this village yet again!” he yelled, kicking Till hard in the stomach, getting ready to kick again when two strong arms grabbed him and pulled him away.

“What in the…” he started, tore himself out of the grip, and spun around, fists clenched, ready to punch whomever dared interfering.

The elder stopped dead in his tracks. Father Riedel’s eyes were dark of anger, and the young priest’s expression screamed not to mess with him.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Father Landers threw himself in between Father Riedel and the head council, hands lifted disarmingly.

“No need to fight, let’s just vote, that’s how we always do things, right? Right?” The small priest desperately looked at the four others in his group.

Getting no response from the others, Father Landers sighed and crossed his arms defiantly. “Fine. I vote yes.”

Father Lorenz shook his head. “No. And let me remind you, Father Landers, that my vote counts double.”

“As if you don’t remind me of this as often as you can,” the Carthusian priest mumbled. “Father Kruspe, Father Riedel, I am sure you two must be with me?”

“I already said let him,” Father Kruspe remarked, lighting another cigarette, while Father Riedel gave his approval with a short nod.

Everyone turned towards Father Schneider. The Roman Catholic priest’s eyes narrowed; his mouth dragged into a frown. “No. I cannot…”

Before he could finish his sentence, Till had crawled over to him, looking at him with pleading eyes, a dark ring forming around one of them. “Father Schneider – you said yourself that it was a pity that you only had one day with me. If you let me join, you will have all the time you should want.” 

Furrowing his brows, Father Schneider looked down at the man in front of him. “You’re not religious,” he said, puzzled.

“I wasn’t, until the five of you made me understand how many different things religion can be. You know my story, you know how I have been treated here. I am the outcast of the village. Even through your punishments, you have cared more about me than anyone has ever cared about me here after my parents died. I want to join you, to learn more, and maybe one day I can become a priest myself and help others like you have helped me. _On the lips of he who has understanding, wisdom is found._ ” Till’s voice was surprisingly clear and determined.

“He said no, did you not hear? Let the priests leave. We shall deal with you, Lindemann.” The head council clenched his fists again and took a step towards Till.

“Hold on.” Father Schneider’s frown was gone, and Till recognised the thoughtful look he had after he had thanked him for helping him three days earlier.

“I am impressed.” Looking down at Till, Father Schneider straightened his padre hat and almost – only almost – smiled. “I change my vote. I vote yes.”

Father Lorenz looked stunned for a second, but his stony expression was soon back. “I see. As I respect the majority vote, you may join us, Till Lindemann. I shall personally help you learn the holy scripture.”

The frown on the head council’s face was the direct opposite of Father Landers’s smile as the Carthusian priest skipped over to Till and helped him up on his feet. Brushing dust off Till’s tunic, the small man winked at the head council, who huffed and went to stand with the other elders and by now, a small gathering of villagers. Soon after, the clergymen – and Till – started on the path leading towards the next village, located a few days away by foot.

As the houses became smaller and smaller behind him, Till felt like it was his past that he was leaving behind. Walking between Father Kruspe and Father Riedel, his steps became lighter and lighter. The feeling of freedom was overwhelming. For the first time in his life, he felt like he belonged somewhere.

“Looking good.” Father Kruspe ran his hand across Till’s head and smiled a crooked smile.

Till laughed. “It looks terrible, but maybe one of you can help me even it out when we stop for the night.”

“I can help you,” Father Kruspe replied, leaning in a little bit closer so the others could not hear him: “Though I liked it longer. More to grab on to.”

Till did not reply, but his smile said everything that needed to be said.  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poetry used in this chapter is taken from _On Quiet Nights_ , the official English translation of Till Lindemann's poetry book _In stillen Nächten_. Translator is Ehren Fordyce. The poem is _Love (Liebe)_.
> 
> ...and with that, the story has come to an end. I hope you have enjoyed Till's journey as much as I enjoyed writing it. Any feedback is greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> This fiction is in seven parts and will be updated weekly. Feedback is appreciated. Thank you for reading.


End file.
